Aftermath
by TeaLogic
Summary: Connor spares his father's life at Fort George, hoping that it can provide another chance for reconciliation. Haytham writes of their aftermath and how they try to prevent the Templar Order from turning to chaos. AC3 ENDING AU
1. Prologue

**Aftermath**

_Connor spares his father's life at Fort George, hoping that it can provide another chance for reconciliation. Haytham writes of their aftermath and how they try to prevent the Templar Order from turning to chaos. AC3 ENDING AU_

**Notes**: Ubisoft rips my heart out (and Forsaken didn't help with the feast on my emotions either) so I retaliate with a shameless AU where at their fight in Fort George, Connor decides to spare Haytham's life instead of taking it. I always thought that if they had been given a little more time and a chance to focus their energies on something other than the conflict, then they could have found a way to sort out their differences. Especially when at the end, neither of them found that they had achieved what they set out to do :(

For all intents and purposes, I'm going to treat Forsaken as canon within this fic, although I know there are several problems with doing this. I will try my utmost to pave the way between both the events of the game and Forsaken (not easy given that both have the most fucked up timelines ever), but obviously both will be subject to copious tweaking. Considering that this is an AU following a specific sequence within the game, I hope you don't mind too terribly. I will also try my damndest to keep in character, but please feel ready to verbally smack me over the head if I fail terribly at this.

**Warnings/Content**: **SPOLIERS FOR AC3 AND FORSAKEN**, **SEQUENCE ELEVEN AU** AND THEN MORE AU AFTER THAT, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing/Harsh Language, Violence, Death, Gore, Torture, Angst, Talk of Death, Talk of Depression, Near-Death Scenarios, OC Antagonists, Father-Son Relationship, SLIGHT Connorline,

* * *

**Prologue **

There is a faint boom in the distance and it snaps him out of his stupor. The hard wood of the chair presses painfully into his back and he grimaces, tensing his shoulders. The pen is still balanced in his left hand, ink dripping steadily down his sleeve. He scowls at the stain on his robes, but makes no attempt to clean it off. His whole attire is currently a gory mixture of blood, grime and dirt, and he figures a bit of ink is not going to matter at this point. Dropping the pen on the desk, Connor closes his eyes and focuses on the noises around him in an attempt to wake up.

He sorts out the sounds in his mind... The faint thunder of cannon balls... the pub goers downstairs talking excitedly about the attack... a drunken man outside moaning about the cold... a couple having sex _loudly_ in the room next to this one...

Drinking, sex and bitter complaining...They are the sounds of the real world, of ordinary life. Something he always figured he would never really be a part of. Well _almost_. The cannon balls are his doing, after all. He feels terribly guilty about it, how he is responsible for the shelling of New York and the amount of upset and devastation it will cause. What's worse is that he knows now there was no real need for such an attack. Of course, if he had known who was really inside Fort George, he probably would have been tempted to go and politely knock on the gates.

His father would have approved at the politeness of the gesture at least.

The image of such an idea doesn't help his mood. The thought of his father only works to make him feel wearier. He sighs, opening his eyes and staring at the candle on the desk until his vision sharpens. He feels exhaustion and pain plaguing his form, threatening to rightfully take him away into a realm of a soothing, carefree slumber. He gingerly rubs his neck, feeling the swollen skin underneath his fingertips and knows that really he should be sleeping for about three days straight rather than sitting upright at a desk trying to compose a crudely written letter to his mentor.

Ah, the letter. It lies there innocently on the desk surrounded by several scrunched up and discarded brothers. It's taken all night to write and all he has is a shambolic mess to show for it. Even the paper itself is coarse and torn, for the innkeeper only had an old journal to give him when he asked for something to write on. The topics included in the document are hardly pleasant, for it is an outline of instructions in case he dies over the next few weeks or months or however long it takes for him to complete his work. He's also had to describe what he's done tonight, in case he never gets a chance to do it in person. Or rather in case he can't admit out loud that possibly, he's made the most foolish decision of his life as an Assassin.

How can anyone put such information in a mere writing? He thinks that in light of events, his diction and sentence structure are hardly important now. Nor is the fact that he's repeated himself several times and often forgot who he was actually addressing. Besides, he thinks as he stretches slowly, if his plan pans out correctly, the letter will never reach another's eyes. He can burn it with relish after all his work is finished.

He hardly has the energy to start another one anyway.

He signs his name at the bottom of the letter in a hesitating scrawl, the pen dragging across the paper. He's never been comfortable with writing his name. It feels like a lie every time he does it. He also hates the way it stands on its own, awkwardly devoid of a surname. It's a firm confirmation that when he stands as an Assassin, he is one without history, without traces or ties...

And he is _so_ tired. The night has been one he will never forget, and it's likely his body won't for a while either.

Connor hears a soft moan from behind him but he ignores it. He looks at the letter again and suddenly doubt clouds his previous optimism. Suppose he _did_ die... either in one way or another, and Achilles would get his hands on this. He shivers at the thought of the Old Man sitting in his chair stricken and with a look of horror on his face, cursing his name. It is such a poor offer for the man who raised him, who gave him tools and training and tried his hardest to keep him on the right path.

All night Connor has been back and forth, torn between confidence in his choices and downright despair at what he has done. He has shown forgiveness tonight, but at the cost of betraying Achilles and turning off the path he was supposed to follow. What is more frightening is that he has no real idea what will happen from now on. The consequences of tonight stretch out before him like cobwebs, intricate and complicated and Connor has no idea whether he is the fly or the spider.

Has he helped his cause through a way of forging an alliance? Or has he condemned the Brotherhood entirely because of a weakness on his part?

Connor raises a hand to his head, trying to quell the feeling of panic and reassuring himself. He is distracted when he hears a loud thump. He turns in his hair to look behind him. The man lying on the bed in the corner of the room has tried to roll over, not only aggravating his injuries, but also knocking a candle off the bedside table next to him. Hot wax drips on to the floor as the room becomes gloomier. Connor squints as the figure on the bed and realises he'll need to move him again. Irritated, he gets up and places the candle back on the table for the third time this evening. He doesn't attempt to light it and instead checks the pulse of the unconscious figure on the bed.

He is rewarded with a feeble attempt to push his hand away. Haytham, even in his concussed and beaten state as a patient, is a surprisingly annoying and fidgety one. All night he has squirmed, batting at Connor semi-consciously as the latter tried his best to dress his wounds. Haytham mutters something when Connor checks the heavily bandaged wrist, but it's too low for Connor to pick up. It's probably some form of a curse anyway, likely directed at him. Connor couldn't care less at any rate.

He turns Haytham on to his back, trying to ignore the distinct discomfort he has at being so close to his father. Merely hours ago, they tried to kill each other. Connor's neck aches at the memory. But here he is checking his father's wounds and ensuring that he's not about to die anytime soon, like the perfectly concerned and loving son he apparently should be.

He feels a mixture of strange accomplishment and total disgust.

Clearly, it's bizarre to think about it in the simplest of ways. Connor would rather not think about it at all. Haytham mutters something again, making Connor think that he will need to make himself scarce soon. Despite the extent of his injuries it is likely that his father will be awake within the next few hours and Connor would rather not be there when he does. He needs to return to the Homestead, partly to rest, partly to begin his next assault on finding Charles Lee. He feels sick to stomach, as it means that when he returns, he will have to lie to Achilles about what he has done tonight. Again, the panic returns at the thought of hiding something from his mentor, but the as he was taught a young age, the consequences of truth are sometimes too much for the situation at hand. Not only would Achilles in his state become even sicker, it is likely the Old Man would vow to never speak to Connor again if he found out Haytham's life was spared. Right now, Connor needs his advice on how to defeat Charles Lee more than he needs his disappointment and outrage. He knows what he has done tonight is a serious crime, but he is willing to wait to see if he should atone for it before he starts declaring his sins to his mentor.

He chucks a blanket over Haytham and the muttering stops. Connor's eyes sweep the room, where Haytham's weapons and clothes lie on the floor next to the desk. Connor, thinking about making a hasty exit from New York, has abandoned items he believes he'll no longer need. He takes one last look at the letter, checking that he's formatted it properly like Achilles taught him. Location of where the letter was written... his signature at the bottom... the date at the top...

He remembers to sweep up his discarded versions and takes them with him. He can't have Haytham using any information in order to tail him or worse lead a manhunt against him. Connor has an inkling that Haytham will try and find him, but he hopes that his father has the sense to keep away. After tonight, there is an even greater urgency to kill Charles Lee and it will take everything Connor has within him in order to do it. If Haytham attempts to foil him again, Connor will not have a choice in whether he wants to show his father mercy or not.

Connor runs a hand through his hair at the thought of what he needs to do. The panic has left his mind. Now there is only purpose. Before he pulls the door shut he takes one last look at the figure on the bed, who has at least settled down for now. No doubt, Haytham looks as rough as hell and it's pretty certain that his face is not going to look very pretty over the next couple of weeks. Nevertheless, Connor has done his best to fix the injuries. He prays that the next time they meet (because if their history is anything to go by, it will be inevitable) it won't be because there is a sword between them.

He makes sure to tip the innkeeper generously before he leaves, thanking him for the journal. He pulls his hood up as he walks down the street, feeling more comfortable underneath the folds of fabric. As he feels the morning making its way through the sky, he realises that he can no longer hear the sound of cannon fire.

* * *

_The Falcon Inn, New York_

_16__th__ September 1781 _

_I write this in case I never get the chance to explain myself. I have tried to write this many times in the past hour in order to fully explain what has happened, but have gotten nowhere. There is no clear reason for my actions. All I can provide now is a testament of what I have done. I do so in case the consequences of my actions mean that I cannot answer for them. _

_This letter is a form of confession. I, who has spent the entirety of my adult life dedicated to eliminating Templar influence, have spared the life of the Templar Grand Master, Haytham Kenway._

_In my hunt for Charles Lee, it is entirely possible that I may meet my end. Perhaps my own father, despite my leniency, will persist in making sure that I do not fulfil my ambitions. Therefore, I wish to make clear what my instructions are to be in light of my death. Stefan is to deliver this letter to the Homestead, so my fellow Assassins may learn of what I have done. Following that, I wish for Aveline de Grandpré to take my place in Brotherhood. I make this offer knowing that she is the best person to lead the recruits through the remainder of this struggle and can continue to rebuild the Brotherhood when all of the conflict is ended. She is to have all access to the information I possess about the Templar Order, as well as my tools, weapons and responsibilities on the Homestead. No matter what the circumstances are of my death, I trust Aveline to act as she sees fit to protect the Assassins for I believe her judgement to be solid and resolute. I understand however, that she is well within her right to refuse such a burden. Therefore I offer her the chance to choose whoever she sees fit to take over my work. I am sorry Aveline, that I failed to keep my promise of meeting you again and I wish you all good fortunes and wellbeing. I hope you found peace. _

_If allowing my father to live proves to have unfortunate circumstances, then I will do everything in my power to correct my error of judgement. The only excuse I make for my actions is that I would rather have died knowing that I gave a crucial alliance another chance, then to have killed it off and later realise that I made a permanent error that I cannot reverse. It is my plan to go to his quarters at Fort George and collect anything that may aid me in both finding Charles Lee and understanding my father more. I know that I can act more rationally in terms of dealing with my father only when Charles Lee is dead and I have the whole truth laid out in front of me. _

_I pray that my instincts are not wrong. But should this letter ever enter your hands Achilles, then I can only wish that in time, you come to forgive me. I am sorry that I met death so early and without completing our work, but more than that I am deeply sorry that you had to find out in this manner. I never, ever intended to betray you this way, nor did I act to disobey your direction on purpose. However, you must know that I truly believed that I could embark on a path to that would have led to reconciliation for the good of mankind and the Brotherhood. I hope that one day, Old Man, you will understand my actions. Everything that encourages hope and peace in me purely came from you. _

_Signed,_

_Connor_

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**Notes**: It's my head canon that after Haytham was treated by Jim Holden, he unconsciously hates anyone treating his injuries. :)


	2. 17th September, 1781

Notes: Aaah, thanks for the response guys!

My apologies for not responding to such lovely messages from some of you, I have had to isolate myself over the past few weeks since posting the Prologue. Ugh, _exams_. They are an arse. ^_^

Warnings/Content: violence, swearing, injury

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_H. E. Kenway_

_17__th__ September 1781 _

I can hardly think where to begin.

I scarcely wish to be here right now, writing with a measure of calm into this little book. I found lying on the floor of some dismal room I woke in up in. I'm boiling with rage and would like to do nothing more but to go and find him. Find the man currently responsible for all of this.

However, it is infuriating to admit that I am in no disposition to go on a manhunt right this moment. The more I write, the more I become aware of the pain in every limb and muscle. However, the tenderness in my head is far worse. It is taking all of my concentration to think and focus and all the time I am rewarded with a stabbing agony for my efforts. I've had to turn my back to the window as my temples scream in protest at exposure to the daylight pouring in.

I must look pathetic. Curled up in bed, sore and furious and trying to make sense of it all.

Facts. If I am going to understand all of this... and Connor's decision, then I will need to organise the facts.

Yesterday, (I am certain I have only been out cold a few hours, I wouldn't be in as nearly as much pain otherwise) I was utterly convinced that I had written my last on paper. As I saw the bombardment begin on Fort George, the journal that had carefully documented most of my life and my work for the Order had seen its last entry. I had reckoned that soon after I had closed the cover, death would come knocking on my front door. Of course, I didn't plan to die, but I knew I was barrelling towards the end. Call it a premonition or an accurate guess or as I privately thought of it as quite a bloody obvious conclusion.

And _yet_ this entry in a foreign notebook stands testament to otherwise. I am still alive. My hand may shake and my head may swim, but more of my words scrawl across the page.

Yet unlike a normal man, I heatedly question whether I am at all happy or grateful for this fact. For being alive... leaves me in an impossible predicament.

I need to focus.

I never intended to kill Connor. The moment I saw the back of Charles' head disappear from my view and turned to look out towards the fleet of ships, I knew what I could and could not do. I could find Connor and confront him, all to keep him distracted so that my best man and future hope for the Order could escape his murderous intent.

But kill him? Kill my son?

That was the one thing I could not do.

What I refused to let someone else do five years ago, I certainly wouldn't accomplish now. However much I ignored it, in the end time, age and a sense of pathetic paternal feeling settled and festered within me. It bit at everything I held dear and tore it to pieces. What was already a weakening devotion to the Templar cause had now been effectively paralysed by a boy who possessed the solid eyes of a woman I couldn't help but love and a firm loyalty to a brotherhood that I have always been jealous of, having been made to look at it from afar.

Connor and I could not have been more different. I do not only speak for our allegiances, but the strengths of our beliefs were on completely opposed ends. From the very beginning, he had his cause, tasks and targets; all were mapped out very clearly like a constellation. Unfortunately for him, it was I who stood at the zenith. As Grand Master, ultimately, it would me who would stand in the way of all he achieved. Oh, we had tried for something other than confrontation. But in the end, it did not matter that we had enjoyed a fleeting moment of collaboration. I would not hand over the man he so desired to destroy, nor would I waver and stoop to his Creed- a Creed that had been part of my inner turmoil for so very long.

I had made major mistakes along the way. Foolishly I played my hand at trying to win him over, failing at almost every turn. My final attempt was the most destructive of all. I thought that by finally revealing to him who was really responsible for the destruction of his village and the horrific death of his mother, he would extend an arm of strong loyalty to me and through it, the Templar Order. It was a ghastly error. He had spent years being lied to, made disillusioned at the hands of supposedly great men and now I had added myself to that pack. I made him look a fool by withholding such important, vital information.

I should have known better. Had I not spent years of my own life perusing my father's killers to find that also, I had been lied to from someone I thought I trusted?

For we had been building some form of trust. Because of our ties in blood he saw me differently from that of Charles or the other Templars. He had begun to rely on me more and more and I saw a sense of security blossoming within him. Why else, after Church's death, would he appeal to me again?

However, after the incident at Valley Forge, I had become every inch the traitor that Washington was. I took whatever faith he had started to gain in me and crushed it.

When he had so furiously threatened me to leave him alone, it was clear to both of us that whatever had passed, whether it was good or bad, there was no hope of us uniting our factions. I could not relent in my beliefs, nor would I feed Charles to the wolf, so to speak. I still feared the chaos that Assassins could unleash on the back of this war. Connor believed that he could not protect his land, nor protect his ridiculous notions of freedom, unless I and every other man who bore the cross were dead.

Connor would do anything in order to guard and advance his cause, even if it meant he had to kill one of his kin.

This is what I thought, this was the line of reasoning I told myself whenever I made plans. This is what I had bloody counted on yesterday.

I knew he would grow restless at our inactivity. I would dare take liberty in saying it was carefully planned in order to draw Connor out. In reality, we were a fading order with little resources to agitate him like we used to. On top of that, I had to spend as much as my time trying to piece together Charles' wrecked reputation, a task that required me to slip out of sight. George Washington had not forgotten me and was quite eager to see me suffer for causing him to lose his favourite Assassin angel. I had no desire to see him again either. However, slowly, I had at least accepted the fact that Washington would not give up his position and he would never be in a situation where he would be made to. It was a hard fact to take in, but he was popular. It was even harder to realise that no one would care that he torched Ziio's home and was responsible for her murder, spare the two people who truly loved her. In the cold light of day, George Washington had done good deeds in this world. Unfortunately for me, it was a particular kind of good that gained him a strong adoration from the rebels. The kind of good that makes history glow and men speak in a softer tone.

I guess it hardly matters to me now.

I had a hunch that Connor would attempt something especially radical in order to reach us at Fort George. I'd seen that impetuous behaviour up close for myself. It was striking, just how unlike his actions were to traditional Assassin tactics. When Connor wanted something done, he'd try and take the quickest route to it, rather than be one who would plot and plan from the safety of shadows. It hardly mattered what was the undertaking, whether it be escaping a burning building or having a target right in the middle of a damned battle.

Yet I understood his need for urgency. I too wanted a conclusion. Connor had been the one to highlight my own imperfections in a very damning way. He was younger, stronger and angrier and happened to carry more convictions in his ideals in the space of a second than I had in my entire life. I had been quite the poor Grand Master, having given up the precursor quest fairly easily and let the Assassins tear the Order apart. I was more than happy to let Charles, the more devout one, take the mantle.

Remaining behind at Fort George was a signing of my own death warrant. I inadvertently told Charles as such, although I don't think he quite believed me. I knew that Connor would have had enough of me standing in his way. I had shattered all bonds between us and been the one responsible for ruining his innocence; he would now fight me to the end.

It was daunting, but I hardly cared. I believed my time was done and I had already prepared a form of my history for Connor, so that he could view it and judge me more accurately for himself. I was too tired to figure out another way to show him what kind of man I was and what kind of man I wanted to be.

He was certainly imaginative in his assault. Only a Frenchman would have the mind to comply with his bizarre and utterly ludicrous plan of attack. It caught everyone off guard, including me. I heard the shots, saw the cannons fly towards me, but I did not believe until they physically hit the fort in a shower of noise and devastation. I admit that I panicked slightly, because initially I had no idea how to tackle this. How would I find the boy amidst the onslaught of destruction? Much more than that, how the hell did he expect to make his way to the fort, dodging _cannon fire _of all things? His recklessness astounded me; he had clearly lost some form of sense when he planned the attack.

I was made to act when a cannonball made a beeline for the roof of the tower I was in. I vaulted over the stairs as it hit, hearing the thunderous roar of shattering stone and wood. There was no direction where I could cleanly avoid the blasted things, so I kept to the walls of the courtyard, anticipating with every second. I wondered how he would know to get inside. It strikes me now that the fault again lies with me. I had brought him here in the first place, back when we went to interrogate the British officers. How stupid was I, not thinking that I was handing him valuable information about our defences.

I continued to flatten myself against the walls, until one cannon shot straight through the rock, very close to me. I backed away wildly, turning around, and then stood stock still as I saw a familiar figure staggering around the courtyard like a wounded bear. There was a slight pull within me as I saw his condition from afar. I had been right about the recklessness. His own plan had worked too well and he had fallen afoul of a cannonball. I wondered now if he could fight me properly in such a condition and I felt more reluctant than ever to step forward. He was far too concerned with his injuries to notice me and for a brief moment, I entertained the idea of returning to the shadows.

However, I had to act. I begun to approach him slowly, not entirely sure whether I was going to hit him or help him to a chair. Both seemed ridiculous and feasible in my mind.

"_Where are you Charles?!"_ He bellowed, almost bent double but full of the fuel that charged him so much. Injured he may be, but it was nothing compared to his desire to kill.

For me, the name acted as a trigger. All uncertainty vanished. Charles was the last hope my Order had and he wouldn't be able to make his escape unless I stalled the Assassin in front of me.

"Gone", I replied to his outburst. He swivelled around, his eyes wild at me as I attacked viciously. He quickly regained himself and returned with an equal measure of violence. Soon we had drawn swords. Our dance had begun.

I say it was a dance like it was something swift and elegant. It couldn't be further from the truth. With him injured and me hesitant, it descended into nothing more than a bar fight with blades. Two men: drunk and delirious, all the while utterly unsure as to why they were really fighting in the first place.

We were both obsessed with rhetoric and reason and they were our real weapons. We traded our well used arguments much more sharply as our swords crossed haphazardly. I could feel myself getting angrier, as I tried once more to educate my son about what the Patriots were truly like. His simplicity shone through again, despite it all, as he almost tried to reassure me that they would not fall to tyranny, but create something new and evidently superior than the system we thrived on.

I knew better. I had always known better. Men who were stupefied with power and selfish intentions would always grow to become the callous monsters of old. Could he not see the evidence in front of his very own eyes?

"As soon as someone takes charge, they want to be told what to do!" I offered, "They _yearn _for it! Little wonder that, since all mankind was built to _serve!_"

At those words, Connor broke off the connection between our swords. I prepared myself for another strike, but to my surprise he stepped backwards. A little caught off guard, I stared at him, wondering what he would do next.

"So," He mocked me, "because we are inclined by nature to be controlled, who better than the Templars?" His voice suddenly dropped to a lower tone, a grave expression on his face, _"It is a poor offer."_

"_It is true!"_ I yelled back, unwilling to bend to his reasoning and bringing my sword up higher, looking to strike."Principle and practise are two very different beasts"

He shook his head sadly, causing me to pause, my breath catching in my throat.

"No father, _you_ have given up, and would have us all do the same!"

I couldn't answer him back. I had no way to. It stunned me completely, the accuracy of that statement. How could he have seen through me so clearly in such a short space of time? It had taken Charles almost a decade to reach that same conclusion and even he, out of fear or some blind loyalty to me, refused to accept that notion fully.

This dangerous debate was over. It wasn't a clash of minds; it was clash of... anger and frustration. Downright fury at what events had lead up to. But there was nothing _I_ could do, spare what I was determined to do. Charles would be out of New York by this time, but he wasn't out of danger. With that idea in mind, I swung again, ignoring the look in his face. He took up this attack, but with an added hint of viciousness. He began to throw me into barrels and tables, making me lose my focus, the pain becoming at a limit that was near unbearable.

At one point, we both charged at each other, not noticing the brute force of an incoming cannonball hitting the ground nearby. It power of the impact was enough to make us both lose our footing. We fell to the dirt as the assault raged on above us. For some moments, we lay there in pain and exhaustion.

One part of my mind was now making itself very well known. It was trying to comprehend the reality of this situation. I could not believe this was happening. How on earth did we get here? Why had this all gone so horribly wrong? The man lying on the ground, as bloody and beaten as I, was my son.

What would my father have thought of it all?

My sense of paternally driven despair was quickly doused by the task I had at hand. I had to stall Connor just that little bit longer for Charles. Ironically though, I faced another dilemma. The longer we fought, the harder it became to continually attack him. The effects of this fight were hardly physical after all. His words echoed loudly in my head like a mantra. I could not block out the phrase, _'given up' _as it smacked against my skull repeatedly.

I had to make him angry enough again. I had to enrage this boy so that he could stab me without a form of hesitation. I had to threaten him. Not just his life either, but the entire foundation that his ideals stood on. No room for argument, but just enough for a murderous response.

However, Connor was still determined to cock it all up. He crawled towards me, foolishly without his sword. Unintentionally, I met his gaze.

"Surrender, and I will spare you!"

I was agog at the offer. After everything that had passed, he still wanted to head for resolution with a Templar over conflict with his father. Looking back now, I should have seen his attitude in our fight as a sodding warning for what he would do next. I should have seen more clearly this determination to take a third path, an impossible middle way.

I averted my eyes and knocked him back. I pinned him to the ground by the throat.

"Never." I growled, my eyes boring into his own that now carried a look of intense betrayal.

I gave him my most vulnerable stance. I knew what it took to kill me; after all, I possessed the same weapon he had. While I was choking him, my face, neck and stomach were completely open to being stabbed by the hidden blade. His hidden blade. The one I had been envious of because he earned his rightfully as an Assassin while I had stolen mine in a pathetic act to save my own life.

I ranted again; the unmistakable feeling of despair overtook me. Did I believe my own words anymore?

Logically, yes. The man I was twenty five years ago would have as well and without hesitation. They made sense as they had always done, and I was addicted to their rationality.

But I had to follow my own preaching. In principle, they had made sense. Practically, what had they led me to? Fathers dream of teaching their children worthwhile knowledge and think of their legacies. Me? I was choking my own son and hoping he would murder me because we couldn't figure out between us how we could co-exist peacefully.

Not the order I had so craved for.

Still Connor refused to act, even though he was now suffering under my grip. Against my will, I squeezed, cutting off his windpipe completely, but still there was every opportunity for him to stop me with a single action. I implored him with my gaze to just finish all of this. If he did not kill me, this would go on and on. I could take it no longer.

He made one last grab at my hands and I could have screamed at him in frustration. I could now feel him fighting desperately for air under my crushing fingers, but still he did nothing to stop me and the clasp was a feeble one, a way of pleading.

I relented in pressure, my fingers loosening up. I _had_ to, for I feared that he would really die by my hand. But it was a costly mistake. I cursed inwardly as his eyes, watering with the pain, went wide in astonishment as he found he could partially breathe again. I shook my head at him slightly, silently willing him to kill me with the unrestrained anger that I had seen personally from before. I knew he had it in him. He still had the sense of youthful belief in his greater good and the instinct was there to fight whatever threatened it.

I thought that he finally got the message, for his left hand lifted off my own and drew back. I anticipated my oncoming demise. I remember resolutely believing that I had no regrets and that I would not bow to sentiment in the final moments of my life. In the end, even though we had struggled for more, we were just enemies. Just two people on opposite sides of the battlefield. I was the weaker one here, having been bitten and poisoned by a sense of paternal duty and I would pay for that with my life. To Connor's face however, I would treat us as strangers. I couldn't bear to give him more of myself then I already had.

I saw his arm blur as it moved towards me. Yet I didn't feel the bite of the hidden blade and the swift rush of death. Cold metal did not touch my flesh, but instead it received the rough leather of a glove. My last memory is of a heavy, brutish slam to the side of my head. I can remember how it sounded, a dull thud as a bloodied fist made contact with my cheek. Today, I wake up in a small room in an inn clearly a few miles away from where our confrontation took place.

There is no other explanation. Rather than kill me, thereby finishing this private war between us for good and sparing humanity the trouble of enduring it, the little shit had knocked me out instead.


	3. 18th September, 1781

A/N: This chapter is quite filler-y, be prepared :)

* * *

_18th September, 1781_

After Connor had effectively punched my lights out, there was only the annoying feeling of sunlight on my face. Realisation of being alive made for an unpleasant impression, like hitting the ground after being pushed backwards. My breath got caught in my throat, making my whole body jolt painfully as I woke with a start.

I opened my eyes to be greeted with a concentrated agony as the blinding light struck them. I turned instinctively away from the window in alarm, irritating a whole load of other aches and injuries that washed over the entirety of my being. To say the least, I was a total mess.

But still very much one with the living.

I waited for the moment to pass, feeling sad and pathetic. My eyes adjusted enough so that I could force myself to look around the room. It was sparse, instantly telling me that this was just like any other inn room I had been in. In the bareness, my gaze went directly to a little book- _this_ little book- that had been just tossed on the floor. My mind was completely scrambled and now in a fair state of panic, so I automatically went for it. I only sought one thing amidst coming back to life in a strange room and that was to make sense of events that had passed. Everything else could definitely wait.

I staggered to the desk in the far corner of the room to retrieve a tired looking pen and ink and then retreated to my small sanctuary that was now the bed. I began to write all that I could remember. Every last detail of that day, the heated words, the fighting, what I felt... all the while I completely avoided the evil sunlight and tried to ignore the world that lay just outside my door.

It is with a faint tinge of embarrassment that I look upon my first entry. I was clearly still fuelled by the emotions I had in my fight at Fort George. After I was finished with my furious scribbling, my head finally gave up on me, forcing me to do no more than rest and ponder. As the night drew in, I remember drifting off into sleep, my livid thoughts only then just dying away. It was an uncomfortable night, given that I was now actively up and conscious. I felt my wounds itch and smart and it took undue restraint not to tear off the neat dressings and scratch them to hell. Years and years of experience had taught me that I had to leave them alone if I didn't want to prolong my suffering.

This morning was much more subdued, my brain felt clearer and calmer. There were no sudden feelings of mad terror. I still ached like the devil, but it was not at all comparable to the savage rawness that I felt yesterday. I felt slightly human. It was a mere fraction, but it was what made me focus. Even though I couldn't make it out the front door, I lambasted myself for spending an entire day devoted to sour thoughts and memories. Now I had to get on, get up and sort out this bloody mess.

Hunger and thirst demanded to be remedied first. I had barely eaten in the days before the battle out of sheer agitation and yesterday I had been too weak and furious to concentrate on it. Now it was all I could think about. I would become even more ill if I didn't remedy the dire state of my stomach.

Getting a sense of my bearings was also important and I would need information. I had guessed that I was miles away from the fort, merely by adopting Connor's thinking. Yet I still had no idea of the real condition I was in, or what had happened to my belongings. I forced myself out of bed properly, despite my poor condition. However, I was patient, determined not to be threatened by how the room suddenly swam before me. I pursued and assessed myself more carefully. Major trouble had been taken with my wounds; the bandaging was neat and clean. My wrist in particular was precariously wrapped in linen- the wrist that had been so _delightfully_ stabbed by my son.

I felt a niggling sense of despair at seeing the care that had been taken with me. I walked gingerly around the room, finding my equipment laid out neatly with my clothes. Unfortunately, I had to put back on those filthy and blood stained garments. There was no mirror in the room, so I couldn't see the spectacle I had become. If it represented a smidgen of what I felt like, then I figured I looked something similar to those fabled creatures of the deep that my father used to tell me about when I was a child.

I took one last look around the room, feeling rather hollowed out. Insignificant almost. I shook my head, clearing away the chance to move into morbid territory. I was right when I said to Charles I was teetering on the side of getting old. This latest development had firmly pushed me into that base.

I made my way downstairs and found a pub on the ground floor. It was quite early, so there were few people about. Guests were having breakfast and the man who I figured had to be the head of the inn was wiping the down the bar and cleaning glasses. He was a small, skinny fellow. Clearly all the growth went into the thick head of brown curls that sat on top of his head and his large watery grey eyes, rather than his height or stature.

He spotted me on the stairs almost straight away, grinning and pointing a finger at me. He laughed when I jumped at the reaction. I scowled. I was feeling disorientated enough as it was without garnering the instant attention of strangers.

He took my facial expression for humour though, continuing in his mirth.

"Hey, hey sleeping beauty! Good to see that your lordship is up and about!" He spoke with a high voice as he indicated to a bar stool, motioning me to sit. Grudgingly I took up his offer, feeling overly suspicious and mistrustful. He was only an innkeeper, but it felt to me like I had woken up in another country altogether and everyone was a threat. I took stock of how many people were in the room, six in total. Five of them eating a rather lovely looking breakfast...

"You are..."

"Oh the man is English!" He said to himself, like he had discovered a new form of animal, "Jack Darford is the name sir," He offered his hand, I reciprocated warily "I'm the owner of the Falcon Inn here!"

The amount of restraint I had to have in order to keep myself from grimacing. '_The Falcon'_. This place was called 'The Falcon'.

More sodding bird symbolism. As if that boy couldn't find enough methods in which to annoy me...

Jack Darford couldn't see that I was trying not to pull another ugly face and gave me a warm smile. He was indeed looking at me like he'd never seen such a person. I had to admit that I was probably the most interesting figure in the room, merely going by the state I was in. It instantly made me feel conspicuous. In the solemn hovel of my room, no one could find me. But now I was out in the open for the first time. Perhaps there were people out looking for me? What if Charles came bursting through the door?

"Given that you ain't been seen since you came in, you'll want a spot to eat I suppose? I'll see if the wife can rustle something up for you."

My shoulders almost hit the floor; I was so relieved at the thought of actual food and nourishment. My relief spread to quell my other worries. Quarter of an hour later, I was seated at the one of the tables with the most delicious looking plate of breakfast that I had seen in years. I forced myself to relax. The bombardment was only two days ago, they would have to search what I now figured would be a decimated fort before thinking of looking outwards.

And that was if they hadn't given me up as dead first. Now _that_ would be interesting.

I had to endure the company of the overly happy innkeeper during my meal. He had an intense interest in the bloody, battered English man eating his wife's cooking and drew up a chair. It was unnerving, having him stare at me as I ate. Considering how inhuman I felt only made things worse.

"You missed a lot of excitement sir, you slept through a battle y'know."

"Really?" I replied. I figured it would be better to get some information out of him, despite his forwardness.

"Yep, the French started bombing the city! No real reason why, well- we're in a war aren't we?"

"Last time I checked."

He was far too excited by what he had to tell me to notice my sarcasm. Despite myself I could feel myself warming up to the ruddy man, although that might have had to more to do with his wife's excellent cooking than his conversation skills. Eating something as simple as eggs and bacon had an effect on me like being revived after the embrace of death, and everything that ached lessened a bit more, I felt more aware.

"Well, they bombed New York all night!" His voice went up perilously high, making me wince. "Didn't get one wink of sleep, me and Jess."

"Were many people hurt?"

"Nah, people are pretty used to it all now. It's just a case of not mucking around when the battle comes. Everyone's up in arms 'bout some fort though; apparently it's been totally destroyed. What was the name, Fort...?"

"Fort George?"

"Yeah! That's it! I tried asking your man if he knew anything, said he didn't though"

I paused, not expecting to hear about Connor so soon. I had an opportunity now. We had embarked on the line of conversation I was after.

"Speaking of the... gentleman, what did he look like?"

"God, you did have a fair bit to drink didn't ya?" He slapped me on the back. Considering that the information was more important than my indignation, I let it slide. I had made the point of wearing my hidden blade though.

"Well Sir, he was massive!" Jack Darford used his arms as an indication, in case I didn't get the picture just right, "at least six foot he was! Dark skinned too, with dark hair and large dark eyes. All dressed in this fancy outfit." He stopped suddenly, becoming thoughtful, "So quiet though, and he wouldn't give me his name for the life of it."

He then sat bolt up, making me jump again. This was beginning to annoy me; I didn't like to think of myself as some frightened rabbit.

"As a matter of fact, I don't know yours either!"

I shoved in the last mouthful of breakfast and leaned back in my chair, trying to keep up the relaxed facade. The lie ran off smoothly from my tongue.

"My name is Holden,"

"So who brought you in then? I hope you know the bloke as a friend"

"Ah, he's a..." I began to think of some elaborate fib, but then I figured that the sparse truth would serve just as well, "...a family member. Keeps an eye on me from time to time."

"Well you've got some right family members, Mr Holden. He was more armed than the smithy down the road!"

"You don't suppose you have a mirror on you?" My face was twinging with the effort of eating, and it occurred to me that I still had no real idea of what I looked like. I couldn't have been that monstrous, for cheerful patrons like Jack Darford were still eager to talk to me. But still, I had to figure if I could show my face to the streets.

There was a mirror propped up on the wall behind the bar. He got up, unhooked it and handed it to me so that I could have a good long look in the glass. By god it was a _sight_. My first thought was that I looked like an old knotted tree. In short, a brilliant watercolour of bruises has formed the entire right side of my face and it blossoms from chin to forehead. It will take _weeks_ to heal.

However, I recall that as I sat there staring at this face I couldn't recognise I considered the observation that the swelling and bruises were nowhere near as severe as it should have been. The blow had been enough to knock me out, yet the injury had been lessened. The attempt had been made to rectify the damage.

That hollow feeling returned. It felt so much more ominous now. I swallowed thickly, prodding my face delicately.

"How soon did Con- the gentlemen leave after checking me in?"

"Well, I dunno exactly Sir." He took the mirror off me with a sorry look on his face, as if it were his fault I looked the way I did. "We were all up in arms about the battle you see. He was still here by the next morning, cos we asked him if he wanted a spot of early breakfast. He said no though, and left ya here."

So Connor had remained for several hours, checking on my state of being and tending to my injuries, before leaving. I recall that I woke at about mid-day yesterday. I just missed him by hours.

If only I hadn't been so badly battered, so that I could have been up and about, then I might have caught him. I was pretty dour as I sat there, figuring it out in this small, shabby pub. My fears were being confirmed, in that I was not the only one who had been bitten by that horrible animal called sentiment.

Sparing the life of your enemy is one thing, to drag him to an inn and clean his face is another.

I can actually still hear Charles' sardonic laughter in my ears. What the hell would he make of this? What the hell would _anyone_, Assassin, Templar or amateur dramatist, make of this little affair that threatened to wreck everything?

Something has to be done. I thought as much at that point. I had absolutely no idea what would be done, only that I had to start somewhere.

I stood up, feeling less shaky than before. I had to pay a visit to Fort George and see it with own eyes. See what Connor and I had left behind. I asked Jack Darford about rates and money, to which he only shrugged.

"Oh no need to pay or anything Sir, in fact you have another night's board!"

I raised an eyebrow at the man's honesty and he threw his hands up in defence.

"I know the guy who brought you in is a scary looking bloke- but I have to say that I've never met a nicer lad. Most men who come in here looking like he did often have to be turned out on their ear."

"What did he do?"

"Well..." and I caught a smirk "He had you thrown over his shoulder, cos you were out cold sir, but he still managed to negotiate prices like he was a landlord or something. Gave the punters something good to laugh about."

I sighed a little, feeling a slightly embarrassed. Of course, Connor would figure that only the practical option was needed when it came to conveying an unconscious man somewhere. Oh, and no need to set him down or anything while you discuss where to put him.

God, that's my son. One half of me. I forget that it is truly the stuff of nightmares.

"Had you two had a tiff or something? Cos I ain't gunna lie, he looked as bad as you Sir, if not worse."

My lip curled, "Something of the sort... I don't suppose he told you were he was headed?"

"Said not a darn word, Sir. I told ya, he was quiet. He didn't have much on him either. The missus was a bit worried about him, to be honest."

Ah yes, Connor for all his winning charms and graces had that effect on people. That hushed, naive nature was attractive to many, and it made him the even more unorthodox an assassin. It was difficult to figure at times that he killed people for a living and happened to be extremely superior at it. I knew that it was that form of temperament that unnerved Charles more than anything, the man who was obsessed with image and personality and its potential to convey messages. Connor defied everything there was to know about aesthetics and occupation and I had to admire him for it.

I again thanked the overenthusiastic innkeeper and resolved even further to see the devastation of Fort George. While logic dictated that Connor was now firmly out of this city, I couldn't help but harbour a small hope that I would find him there. Another part of me hoped to find Charles there, although that would have caused some major predicaments.

There were much more practical and pressing problems that I had to solve. I needed to see if I could find some clothes. There was absolutely no way that I would be traipsing around in the future wearing what I currently had on.

It was still early in the morning when I left but I was made to walk slowly. The day was hitting the afternoon hours by the time I reached near the fort. It was busier than usual, given that every couple of hundred yards, there be a scene of total destruction. Soldiers milled about between those attempting to go about their daily lives. They were there to deter looters and thieves, scoundrels who took advantage of those who had their lives wrecked by war. It took a great deal not to target those who were looking shifty in my eye and frighten them off with the glint of my blade in the autumn sunlight.

I thought about pulling my hat low over my face, but I figured that if I couldn't recognise myself then it meant no one else could either. Given the state of my clothes, people were already inclined to give me a wide berth, making it easier to keep well out of a soldier's line of sight. I made it through to the fort with little trouble. I was able to slip the guards there with equal ease. Though it wasn't all that difficult, given that they only could protect half a gate; the other half lay in bits across the pathway.

As I walked across the courtyard, eyes sharp, the memories flooded in. Bits of smashed wood were scattered everywhere and it was as if my body reacted by remembering being struck with them. The buildings were falling to pieces and the entire front of Hickey's old quarters had fallen off completely, the image reminding me of the dollhouses children had in England.

My own tower was on the edge of collapsing. I recalled that a stray cannonball worked to tear the roof off and true to form a large gaping hole was all that was left. Hazardously I crept up the stairs, listening for the slightest sound that could indicate that I was about to be buried alive. The structure proved sturdier than I thought and I was able to make it to my private quarters. I found some suitable clothes in my bedroom. I couldn't help but tut at the state of it.

More horrors in annihilation lay in my study, the room I spent nearly all my time in. It had been like my bedroom, shaken to pieces, but I could tell that this place had been completely ransacked. More than that, someone took liberties to let me know that everything had been rifled. It was like a note. A crudely written one, mind you, but it made me start as my eyes surveyed everything.

Against my better judgement, I whispered his name, as if half expecting the silly boy to pop out from one of the cabinets. Obviously, he did not answer the summons. Connor was long gone, and as I looked at the chaos in front of me, it struck me that I had to find him soon.

I picked my footsteps carefully as I walked across the room, mimicking the ones I was sure he had taken when he was present. Given that he hadn't been there all that long ago, I found it quite easy to do. What struck me most in the bedlam was that my ledgers, carefully composed and kept, had been thrown across the room, smacking into the wall and leaving dents. A large amount of anger had been in his actions. More papers were scattered like leaves and his muddy footprints were all over them. Years of work, reduced to literally being stamped on. It was depressing to say the least.

He had worked around my desk the most, apparently quite comfortable in rifling through my personal things. There was greater care here. Things like ledgers and reports were not of too much use to him as he knew our workings now as much as we did. But what did he get out of going through my personal things? I couldn't recall having anything to give him.

Except-

The top draw of the desk was where something had changed. It was apparent because not even Charles had the daring to venture in there and I could sense that it had been intruded upon. The moment my fingertips touched the handle, I knew what it was. I opened the draw to confirm it anyway and I was greeted with nothing.

My first journal was gone. The book that had detailed pretty much the entirety of my life until now was in his hands. In my mind's eye I could see him taking it. Looking as battered and tired as I was, he opened the worn cover and saw my name in the hand of a young boy. He would have snapped the cover shut as the first page alone being enough to warrant him taking it.

The void I had been feeling all day now started to fade, leaving a strange form of release. Out of everything I had, the one thing I wanted Connor to take was my journal. Ever since he turned away from me after my huge mistake at Valley Forge, I wanted him to know what I had been through in my life. It was the one bridge I wanted to build amongst those we burned.

Although I had planned to be quite dead by the time he had possession of it. It was my one true legacy, my tale of temporary truces, lies and constant tension. I didn't want to answer for it however. That wasn't the point of legacy. It wasn't meant to answer back.

I felt overwhelmed by the idea of Connor knowing completely about my life. It was my one true wish and my worst nightmare. Would he completely regret sparing me after reading about my crimes and try to correct his mistake? Or would he see some logic in my writing, an argument of mine that he couldn't oppose? I needed answers. I wasn't going to get them unless I ask my son, face to face, what he wanted to do in terms of our turbulent relationship as divided parent and child.

I was still feeling rough and crippling exhaustion threatened to take over me. I sat amongst the rubble, trying to take stock of everything. Trying uselessly to understand it all.

I had only been sitting there a few minutes before I heard voices wafting through the shattered window. Carefully, I peered out into the courtyard and saw two men picking their way through the debris. I recognised them by their insignia and I balked. They were Charles' men.

Dread rose up in me. If Charles was already on the hunt for me, dead or alive, then I had to be careful. The decision stood firm in my mind. It was easier to be dead; therefore I didn't want to be seen just yet. I had already set on chasing Connor and I couldn't do that while Charles still looked to me as leader. Looking for an Assassin, regardless of relations, looked incredibly traitorous and could not be easily explained, even to the man I considered my closest ally. Charles had barely tolerated the joint efforts in locating and killing Church, I knew he would lose it entirely if he knew what I was fast planning now.

I kept my watch on the pair as I made my resolution. The taller one shook his head as he chucked aside a table leg, turning to his partner.

"Mother of God, Andrews, he can't have survived this surely? We won't find a ruddy body, living or dead, amongst this lot anyway!"

"Our orders are clear though," The other replied quietly, "Lee said we needed to search everything."

He received a fair amount of grumbling in return, but then together they searched in silence. Luckily, they were methodical in their sweep of the place and started with the building closest to them. I was able slip out without raising attention, pressing myself back against the wall until I found a hole big enough to escape through. Even though the pain was starting to get slightly unbearable, I wasted no time getting out of the vicinity, making my way swiftly through the crowds until I was out of the area entirely.

I kept walking briskly until I was back in the confines of my room. I promptly collapsed, breathing heavily, my head continuing to spin worryingly. I forced myself to get a grip, to focus on what I had seen, what I knew now.

I'm sticking by my plan that I made in my ruined tower. I might as well make good use of Connor's damned generosity before I track him down and spend tonight at the Falcon. I still flare with anger at the choices he has made for me. It may be my whim to ask him questions, but there is no guarantee that I will like his answers any better than before. Of course, I haven't even begun to think about the black pit that is action and reaction. Connor has seemingly left me with no choice but to bring out the absolute worst in me. I am still a Templar. I cannot undo twenty years of bad blood. I cannot undo a lifetime of devotion to a way of thinking. I cannot ally with him and his cause.

I _cannot_.


	4. 12th November, 1781

A/N: Ye gods this chapter blew up. Apologies.

* * *

_12th November, 1781_

I am sincerely beginning to regret writing in journals again, because they stand as testaments to my foolishness to which I can only look back on with total embarrassment. As the date today so brutally indicates, there was no immediate, hot footed pursuit for Connor. Rather, it could be described as a bumbling and shambolic wander in the dark.

And he _still_ remains out of my grasp.

The optimism I had in my ability to be ready to leave New York the very next day after my visit to Fort George was killed almost in an instant. Reality dictated that I had to spend _eleven days -_almost _two weeks_- marooned in that room, merely licking my wounds and dealing with round after round of mild illness and general lethargy. It goes without saying that I had an unlimited amount of fury for myself- for this new sense of weakness that had sprung up on me without warning, ruining all of my plans.

Yet, as I pointed out rather notably to myself in the previous entry, I had accepted that I was getting old. The second part was that I would now have to accept that my abilities were forever affected. While this process of thinking hit harder than Connor's well placed punch, it was clear to me that from now on, I had to be very careful at how I conducted myself physically. There would be no more bandying about such a careless manner of the young.

Over the course of that delay I willed a measure of tolerance over my body, practising patience and understanding. I tried to reassure myself that time hadn't completely slipped from me. I was not the only one who took a severe beating that day in the fort. Connor could have all the anger and energy in the world and yet even he would need to recover from being almost hit by a cannonball. Like me, he would have to retreat somewhere, and I thought this was where I would find him.

Of course, while my body was dozy, I spent the ample amounts of time thinking feverishly. As I became reacquainted with the simplest of tasks, my mind whirred onwards with plans. However, I soon hit a major problem. I had a thousand combinations of my one notion, like a jigsaw of approaches, yet none of the pieces fitted together coherently. The only certain conclusion I had was that trying to figure it all out irritated me greatly on an hourly basis- the weight of the problem would suddenly press on me and infuse me with hopelessness. Seeing it as detrimental to my recovery, I gave up.

I have decided to believe that whatever I do will set a chain in motion, which can eventually lead to some sort of acceptable solution.

Failing that, I will probably meet my real death. It's just a case of whatever comes first.

At least I appear to be pretty skilled at this act of being dead. During the time I spent in that pit I called a room, no one came looking for me. There was nothing or no one who contradicted the general public on the 'fact' that I was dead. The wonderful Jack Darford (that demon has tested my tolerance more times than I thought were humanly possible) announced my demise to me with a solemn air that bordered on hilarity. The real humour came from the fact that he told me privately of his suspicions, that surely all English men were compelled to grieve for each other in the event of a loss, and was that the reason why I spent all that time in my room- for I was enacting the English rite of silent mourning?

Well, I nearly bent the fork I was holding at the time in half.

I suppose I shouldn't have been so full of mirth over this... unusual situation. It _is_ rather disturbing. It gets worse when I recollect on what Darford told me about my own funeral. According to the happy innkeeper, there wouldn't be one, as there was no body to be buried.

"I'm not surprised," He said in the final hours I spent at that blasted inn, "I saw the sight of that fort for myself. Kenway's probably in bits among all the stone and woodwork. Or the fishes are eating him"

I grimaced, no longer caring to hide my facial expressions. The mental image of my own battered body in various descriptions of death was _not_ what I needed that early in the morning.

"_Lovely_."

"Well it's a nasty way to go." Eleven days had gone by and he still had not picked up on the concept of sarcasm, "They'll never find him. They should just stick a headstone up in the local graveyard and be done with it."

I left the place with that grim idea rolling around in my mind. That might be my lasting impression on the world: A simple headstone sitting in a random graveyard in New York with no body beneath it. It was hardly history-worthy stuff or part of the legends I had dreamed of when I was a very young man. I recall as I laboured under Reginald's dry studies that I wanted at least some form of a major memorial and a small score of future Templar's aspiring to be me. Well over thirty years later and rather than being immortalised in greatness, I'll be a permanent stain on the Order, most likely right up there with Cesare Borgia.

Still, I can't act surprised over the fate of my legacy. I did always claim that dreams and reality are two very different paths. It's a little hypocritical of me to be annoyed that my preaching is now landing squarely at my doorstep.

It is by my decision that I stay in the gloomy realm of the understated dead. In those eleven days, I contacted no one. Not Charles, none of my Templar brethren- _no one_. The resolves made in my ruined tower at Fort George continued to stick with me. Even now, they still do with a surprising ferocity. There is nothing more that I want on this earth but to find Connor and demand the explanations I am sure I deserve. I am still certain that this will be easier to achieve as a dead man. My brothers are no longer watching my every move with heavy criticism. In particular, I sleep easier knowing that Charles cannot disapprove, that I am not bogged down by his haughty arguments and accurate accusations of poor leadership- all that would strain our already broken relationship.

Or worse... he points and calls a traitor. Something I know I could never bear well.

Thinking about Charles nearly always consumes me with guilt. Here I am, attempting to fulfil my own personal wants by running around cities and frontiers free as a bird from the immense weight of leadership. Meanwhile, poor Charles must be dealing with a wilting Order while bearing the title of a disgraced ex-officer.

There was nothing I could have done about his fall from grace in the army, but I will always take on the blame for how the Order crumbled away as it did. Not _everything_ was my fault, there was no preventing some of the setbacks we faced, but it is obvious that I did very little to correct the damage. I threw away every opportunity offered to me and I had been granted more than most men. But of course, I've come to realise these days that hindsight is an ugly, bitter shadow that can never part from you.

There were positive things to reflect on during my stint in purgatory on the other hand. In the present, they are what I cling to in my darkest moments. Before my 'death', I was beginning to fear that Charles was becoming far too obsessed with trying to ruin Washington. I didn't want him to begin to forget what our work was truly about in exchange for trying to achieve this impossible feat. I know that his thirst for power and responsibility will be quenched by what this new lease of life- the position of Grand Master- can offer. I know how much he wanted to correct my apparent wrongs, even though he would never override my authority. My 'death' can give him the opportunities he's always wanted if he has the patience to ride out this unfortunate blot of bad luck on our history. Hopefully, a declaration can be given to this new world and he can begin to rebuild this shattered Order quietly in the face of it.

I have my faith in him. He was always the better candidate for that cursed position of Grand Master than I ever was.

It was with these equal amounts of self reassurance and self doubt sitting on my shoulders, that I was finally able to leave the Falcon Inn on the twenty-ninth of September. If I could forget the new sense of anxiety and the addition of scars, I felt almost like my old self. I took comfort in the fact that at least my face was no longer the total horror it had been and I could pass for a human being. Those extra eleven days had also given me sufficient time to prepare for a lengthy journey, with a new horse and enough supplies to last me a good long time.

Or, so I thought. Preparation can only get you so far and only if you use it in the correct way. I managed to muck it up majorly and undo all of that hard work in a single stroke.

I never outlined a real destination in my mind. But when I absentmindedly set upon the route that would lead me to area where I vaguely knew hid the Davenport Homestead, a new sense of peace and optimism took place within me. I actually looked forward to what I thought would be a short journey, with the land spread out in front of me as nature's mansion for me to wander quietly through.

Never has there been more of a thoroughly stupid approach. With no direction and a need to stay off the paths for fear of being recognised, I became lost within the first few hours. Countless days later of living in the wilderness with winter knocking on the door and I was convinced that I was going to die of cold and starvation. It's likely that my anger at my own idiocy and my desire to kill every living thing in sight kept me alive. The frontier itself became a hideous repetitive pattern of nature and my own (now decidedly useless) sense of direction led me to amble in circles. All the while I got colder, hungrier and weaker.

Finally one evening, where the night threatened to engulf me even faster than before, I felt myself sway dangerously on my horse. I knew then that I would have to risk going back on the path and find a settlement of some sort, as there was no way I could bear another night out under the sky. I no longer cared who found me, as by a miracle I did find a well worn dirt path. As I pushed my equally worn out horse forward in thick woodland, I was bloody well determined to find somewhere to stay that night, and I couldn't have cared where it was.

Hours went by and I could feel myself becoming more and more fragile, but then I was jolted out of my stupor as the hooves of my horse made contact with the sudden hard wood of a bridge. It was like being awakened unexpectedly, making me alert to the sounds and sights of a large river that was flowing fast underneath. I actually laughed out loud, for water was the humble life source of any settlement. Even the sprawling mass of London would not be complete without its key river.

Almost by instinct, I turned my head to the left. I smiled widely as I spotted a large mill in the far distance, its silhouette a comforting image. I then directed my gaze forward and squinted in the darkness. I was utterly overjoyed to see lights dotted between the trees. A renewed energy struck from within as I made the deduction that life and people were very present there.

The mill was huge, built to accommodate a suitable size population. If the lights were anything to go by, the settlement itself was large- bound to have amenities such as a church or even an inn. Even though my horse was reaching the limit, I spurred her on. The blessed animal felt the sudden spark of excitement in my limbs and trusted me enough to respond dutifully. The path blossomed out and buildings were everywhere. I caught the one I was looking for, going by the recognisable shape of the sign swinging above the door. With my horse gratefully settled in a nearby stable, I pounded mercilessly at the locked front door, all the while feeling completely shattered.

After about a minute's worth of hard labour, it swung open unexpectedly, causing me to nearly fall through and crash into the poor woman who had opened it.

"My goodness!"

Having enough awareness to get my balance by holding on to the doorframe, I lifted my head to be greeted by her horrified face. She was holding a lamp up to peer at me and in return I stared hard at her. She was closer to my age, small and portly, but obviously kind and welcoming. The very fact she didn't scream her head off at the sight of some bedraggled Englishman told me that immediately.

I managed to straighten my back out and smooth down my coat in a poor attempt to regain composure.

"My complete and utter apologies, madam." I made eye contact warily, as if I was approaching a skittish animal. There was no disguising the thinness in my voice, however. "As you can probably tell, I got a little lost. You don't suppose you have a room spare for night, all for a total fool such as I?"

"I..." She faltered and I panicked slightly, waiting for the part where a burly husband would appear behind her to kick me out and back into the cold. There must have been something especially pitiable about me, for she smiled warmly.

"Always, sir." Relief washed over me as she opened the door wider, motioning me to follow her into the warm confines of the inn. "We get all sorts here."

_I bet you do_, I thought silently as she led me across a darkened tavern. It was as silent as death. The threat of an oncoming winter always had that affect on even the most sociable of places, sucking the life out of every corner.

I followed her like a lost child up to the bar, where she promptly bent down and disappeared behind it. I could hear her shuffling papers and keys and I silently blessed whatever it was that had given me this luck. Clearly she didn't sort out the business end when it came to inn keeping. She merely must have been doing a final check of the place before turning in and I had just turned up at the right time, making enough noise to raise Lucifer let alone draw her attention.

While she muttered to herself and moved things about, my eyes sharpened to the darkness and I looked at the various trophies and pictures that adorned the walls. Someone who lived near to the place was clearly an excellent hunter and there was another who had a talent for painting. I shook my head; the frivolities of town life were always lost to me. They always gave too much away, while the anonymity of cities was much more protective.

I was drawn to the fireplace, where a few dying embers offered a spot of light in the gloom. The interesting detail lay on what was draped above it. It was a flag, but not one I had ever seen before. My weary mind tried to figure out where it could have come from. Again, I saw it as another town triviality- small settlements feeling like Empires, so isolated are they from the real world.

However, it was the flag that had finally made me a bit more aware of the situation I was in.

"Where am I?" I murmured absentmindedly to the lady with my eyes still fixed on the adornments. I was too tired to really care what I got in return, merely the skills I had burned into me were telling me to gather information at every opportunity.

She was about to hand over some keys to me, but her arm froze mid way. It broke me out of my gaze across the walls and when I turned to face her I was met with grave concern. It then occurred to me that it wasn't the most sensible question to ask at almost one o'clock in the morning.

She answered, but her voice shook with nervousness.

"Davenport Homestead, Sir. Are you okay?"

Now it was _my_ turn to go stock still. For a moment my legs threatened to give way. I couldn't _believe_ it. Pure providence had brought me to Connor's doorstep despite my attempts to sabotage it with my stupidity. In a wave of tiredness, hunger and narrow patience I struggled to conceive what was clearly the impossible. I figure that my tired, worn out face darkened very quickly.

"You're not serious?"

My tone was too rigid, and she trembled even more. "Shall I fetch the doctor, Sir? You've gone rather white, and you were pale to start with-"

Seeing her anxiety made me feel particularly bad. I held up a hand to placate her and smiled, as if I was part of a private joke. To be fair, I was in a sense.

"No, no. I'm absolutely perfect. My apologies again, madam, I am in need of a good night's sleep. And I am disturbing yours" It crossed my mind not to dare ask what the date was. I could get away with being lost, but not knowing how many days had passed by me would undoubtedly warrant further questioning.

Her face softened once more, now she was finally certain that I was not here to cause problems.

"No trouble at all. Will you require breakfast in the morning?"

_Ha_, I mused sarcastically to myself that yes, that would be a good one. Boldly booking myself into one of the rooms at the local inn wouldn't be enough. Connor surely would have _delighted_ in seeing me merely getting as comfortable as I possibly could on his territory.

Speaking of the boy, I certainly wouldn't dare ask about him either. Sorting the problems of being cold and weary was much more pressing at the time. Exchanging more pleasantries, I was finally settled into a room. I promptly crashed on to the bed, fully clothed and still chilled from the cold. Even though I was now in the heart of an Assassin stronghold, I slept very peacefully. It must have been something to do with being nearly frozen to death. That night, I would have renounced the Templar ways forever, if it meant being between warm sheets and blankets. I was just lucky that it didn't get that desperate.

I was up just after sunrise and wasted no time in leaving. I was a little surprised to hand in my keys to the same woman from the night before. She looked a little taken aback to see me up and about too, after the way I looked merely a few hours before. She smiled at me again as I tipped my hat.

"You are a fine woman, to keep your composure for a deranged man in the early hours of the morning."

"Anytime, sir." She blushed in reply. Paying twice the amount for the night had worked as I wanted- she hadn't even thought to ask for a name.

I managed to learn from a punter sitting nearby that it was October seventh. I tried not to let that piece of information bother me too much. There was every chance that Connor would still be there. I walked out feeling overly confident. I may have been in Assassin territory, but it was clear from the peacefulness that permeated every inch of the place that the locals were not aware that one of their own was one of the deadliest men alive. I'll admit that it made me curious about how the main Assassin there did conduct his manner. Perhaps Connor presented himself merely as one of the people, purely showing only his mild countenance to his fellow patrons and then letting the much more murderous side of himself go only when everyone was out of sight. It was consoling to know that at least Connor wouldn't attempt to kill me at the first sight of me there, as I figure that the locals would be a least a little inquisitive about it.

There was a main road that ran right through the heart of the Homestead and was used by everyone. Not wanting a ghastly repeat of my time in the frontier, I kept to it religiously. In the clear light of morning, everything was outlined for me to devour with my eyes.

I was immediately dumbfounded by a revelation. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get over how idyllic the place was. Templar strongholds were by tradition, either miserable or dreary; comprised of drafty chateaus and cellars. What I saw in front of me was an open _paradise_ by comparison. The physical embodiment of Eden. Reginald's lessons emerged from my memory as I kept walking. He had told me with large amounts of disdain about the lofty and beautiful abodes Assassins had over the centuries. Of course, as a young teenager seeking his praise, I mimicked his contempt. Privately, like all the other students as we half perished in the dungeons, I fantasised about Masyaf castle. A fairytale like Masyaf, with its gardens, women and wealth, was a thousand times more appealing than the cold and harsh doctrines of the Templars any day. Luckily, we all matured and forgot these impossible visions of lavishness, but now the Homestead threatened to bring them all back with a stunning reality.

There I was, in the centre of such a fairytale: the gardens became a huge sprawling forest, the women were here amidst scores of other contented people and the prosperity showed in the scale and variety of business.

In the middle of war, poverty, revolution and general hard times the people there thrived and lead simple but wonderful lives. An Eden for the new age. The effect was intoxicating, but I was also aware that I never felt so out of place as the cold sun shone on my face and I thought about what life would be like if I lived there. Even though winter was knocking very firmly at the door with a crisp and cool air, it was not something to fear from, like those in the city would. Instead, the locals were chatting about the opportunities it would bring, such as festivities and joy. Everything was to be looked at with positivity, with hope.

My idea of being alert to everything gradually fell apart and I wandered about half in a daze. How on earth did Connor find it within himself to leave such a place as often as he did? Was it because he knew that a few miles out the threat of chaos lay, waiting to strike? Was it the nature of this place that spurred him on to try and recreate it elsewhere, despite the sheer impracticality of that happening?

He had all this extra responsibility, in having that place to protect as well as pursuing his goals, and I never knew about it. Or asked.

As I walked on, people greeted me kindly, even though I was a total stranger. Yet the local I was looking for was missing amongst it all, and there was no hand on my shoulder or a calling of my name. Even though I wanted to avoid it, I knew that I would have to visit where he lived in order to know whether he was actually there. Soon enough, the path took me to a large house that stood above the settlement on a hill. It screamed security, undoubtedly the solid heart of the Homestead. I didn't need Jonson's old sketches to tell me that this was the famed manor that belonged to the previous master of the colonial assassins.

I felt peculiar, looking up at Connor's home. Like I had never thought about his responsibilities, it never truly occurred to me, in all the time I knew him, that he had one out there in the world- his so called safe haven that was shut off from the dangerous work he occupied himself with. He grew up in a mansion not unlike the one from my own childhood, but I had no details other than that. I had no idea how old he was when he started living there. I had no idea how he coped at first or how he learnt to adapt to living with the former master Assassin. I had no idea whether he always felt comfortable here, or if he felt isolated from it all. I never knew if he truly felt this was his home, or if in secret he pinned for the village that was always under threat.

The distance between us in terms of parent and child had never hit me so hard as it did when I stood there, not knowing a single intimate thing about his early life.

I _should_ do... but then I should have been the one to provide him a home and a family.

Hindsight is not only ugly but just so happens to be quite a vicious bastard.

I then felt conspicuous. The Homestead was always on the move and I must have stuck out amongst it all, standing there, listlessly staring at a house. I let go of my sudden misery, thinking that what I needed then was a nosey neighbour or a loud curious child- someone I could ask questions without worrying about again raising unwanted suspicion...

A voice called out from behind me, making me spin on my heel.

"Are you lost or looking for someone, stranger?"

It looked like I wouldn't have to go searching, for the nosey neighbour had found me first. A tall, imposing man stood in front of me with his arms folded. Burn scars and marks on his clothes suggested he worked as a blacksmith here, alongside with his physique. If he needed to, I gathered he wouldn't struggle in squashing me flat.

"Actually..." I swallowed, wondering how this was going to work. I knew I had to learn if Connor was there. More importantly, I had to know if he would speak to me unaccompanied. I knew full well that if Achilles would be present, then there would be no hope of getting the answers I wanted. Whatever it was between Connor and I, it only concerned us. No excess baggage allowed. After all, _I_ had come alone.

If Achilles was here, then I knew it would be a wasted trip.

"I'm looking for the owner, I believe he is called Mr Davenport?"

The blacksmith immediately dropped his stance. Unfolding his arms awkwardly, I saw his face soften. It was an odd expression for such a tough looking man.

"Ah, I am sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr Davenport died last month."

Those words, to my personal astonishment, were a blow to me. I was momentarily struck dumb. My first instinct was to refuse to believe it. Granted, Achilles was old and frail- but dead? Gone? Somehow the two concepts, being old and being dead, didn't like to connect together in my thinking. There was a block between them, an impassable space.

The man saw the shock on my face and took a consoling step towards me. I hardly noticed as I tried to sort out why I was so annoyed at the fact that the old man had finally passed into the unknown. I decided to push it away. I could never start feeling maudlin over Achilles.

I took a deep breath, "Do you mind if I ask how?"

He shook his head, "Course not, it was peacefully apparently. Sad though. He'd been waiting for his lad, Connor, to come back cos he'd been on a trip of some kind- he's rarely home these days. Anyway, Connor had been only back two or three days and found him dead in his living room. He was a good age though, so it was hardly a surprise."

Quickly, I calculated possible dates and times. Connor must have wasted no time in fleeing back to the Homestead, at any rate. It looked like I would have been at a disadvantage even if I was able to be ready to leave immediately.

Once more had my optimism had been promptly slapped in the face.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is the boy- Connor- in charge of this place now?"

"Aye, that he is. Achilles left him everything, including managing us sorry lot here. But Connor's been looking after us long before it was ever required of him." He smiled at me in an attempt to be friendly, "It'll be him you'll need to speak to if have any business to go about in Homestead. However, he's not here at the moment. I can't tell you where he's gone or for how long."

I refrained from making a cutting remark about having business in Homestead. Rather, I was already beginning to think about my next move. It was unlikely Connor would return here so soon after leaving. His Mentor had died, yet he had not seemingly spent much time mourning at his home. This threw me in terms of wondering where he had gone next. Would he be that silly to go and look for Charles so soon after our confrontation? Did he not figure that I would look for him?

- Or was he looking for _me?_

"What did you want with Achilles anyway?" The blacksmith cut me off from my thinking, "You're certainly not from around here, though you look familiar"

"No, I'm..." The simple truth always seemed to fit the situation, "I'm an old face from New York. I lost touch with Achilles years ago and heard he now resided here."

That didn't wash too well with this man, I could tell. Perhaps it was the fact I said I was from New York. Perhaps I couldn't pull off false confidence as well as I used to. Whatever it was, my performance won him over more than my uncertainty and his instinct.

"Huh, didn't know Achilles had friends of that sort. Well, if you ever want to hear a few tales, you're welcome to a pint with me at the inn after lunch"

A small feeling of trepidation that had been rolling steadily since I heard about Achilles' death was now too big to ignore. I realised that I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. I _had_ to get out of there. I now knew then that coming to the Homestead was the wrong thing to do. I had been seen, I had spoken to people, all of this could be recorded, relayed to someone who could use this against me- or worse, figure out that I was alive. I had been ruled by my heart in coming here, making simple minded deductions. Not even Connor made those sort of mistakes.

I shook my head in a polite refusal. It was still very early in the morning. If I rode in earnest and risked travelling on the main pathways, I could be out and near Lexington by nightfall. "I'd best be on the way. I'll have to make some enquires about Connor, I take it?"

"Aye, and good luck with it. Connor doesn't tell anyone about his work here. He goes to both Boston and New York regularly though. Whatever he does its dangerous cos he's always armed to the teeth."

I caught the barest hint of a threat. Maybe Connor wasn't so adept at hiding the more brutish side to him there. Nevertheless, the sense of respect for him through this man was overwhelming. Despite myself, I now had a question I wanted to ask out of simple curiosity, so that I could hope to understand the dynamics of this impossible place.

"I take it Connor is Achilles son? Forgive me, but I thought Achilles lost his family long ago"

He hesitated, "No, he's not, although he was as good as. Connor's always said that Achilles is a family friend."

"I see"

"But we don't ask too many questions here, sir, if you pardon my forwardness."

My eyebrows rose just slightly. _Now_ there was a much bigger sense of threat radiating from this man. I must have struck a nerve, asking about family ties. It was interesting to think that such a model settlement would have skeletons lying around. I apologised, acting as if I was unaware of my informality, and thanked him in an overzealous manner and wished him well. He merely raised a hand to acknowledge me. I knew my cue. I turned and walked back down the path, heading south; acting as if I was heading the way I had came from. I felt the man's eyes follow me intensely. I kept my cool, but the moment he had turned and walked away, I quietly made my way up to the front door.

I had felt the urgency to leave the Homestead and my interactions with the blacksmith intensified it, but blast it all, I wanted to look at Connor's home in more detail. I didn't want to rely on sketches and second hand information; I just wanted to have my own set of knowledge when it came to my alienated son.

I didn't bother knocking. After years and years of practise in breaking and entering, one learnt to tell if there were subtle signs of life in a household. The mansion was deserted. As I peered through the ground floor windows, dust was gathering on the sills and the kitchen and fireplaces were cold and empty. I don't know if being actively aware that someone had died in there affected on what I felt, but there was something eerie about it all.

And then of course, when I got back to the front of the house, I only had to quickly glance behind me out of fear of being watched and saw something extraordinary.

Lo and behold, there were three graves sat in a neat row facing the house. Two I knew about before, for Jonson had told me about his wife and child, who had died before our attack (something I couldn't help but be grateful for) and then a recently placed one. Upon the soil lay a mixture of flowers, fresh and blooming. They were below a carving of stern capitals on solid grey stone, newly etched.

The name was inescapable, forever engraved on to me with the history between us leaving horrifying consequences that rebounded in a young man. It had started with two leaders of opposite sides and it all ended there with the grave of Achilles Davenport.

It was quite a sobering moment.

I thought about the last time I saw Achilles. We didn't meet face to face. It was at Connor's execution, where I had spotted him reaching for Connor through the crowd as the latter went to meet his death. That day was the first and only time we agreed on something, that Connor's life was worth more than our own or our separate beliefs. We had unknowingly collaborated. He risked his life by defying the warning I gave him all those years ago with that planned arrow, I risked the Order by forfeiting Hickey's life with my unplanned dagger.

And now there was just me. The so called 'victor' in that old war. We were young and irrational when we both viciously vowed to outlast each other in life, how bitter it felt then as the winner.

Looking at Davenport's grave, I finally relented and thought about what I had done to that man.

The first time I went to the colonies, the title of Grand Master still fresh and unusual to me, the Assassins already there never struck me as a concern. I had my orders from Reginald Birch and I stuck to them devotedly, not wanting to defer from the man who I thought I could at least trust in terms of direction.

But of course, after I at least succeeded in carrying out his directions, everything soon turned on its head in a sickening fashion. One thing led to another and then I was on a ship to the colonies from France, the blood of both traitors and friends staining my hands and I being half the man I was.

With Holden's death, I pledged to try my utmost to unite Assassin and Templar- I owed it to that astonishing man who saved my life. Yet- and I loathe to even admit it decades later, something got lost among the waves. I was returning to the land of supposedly endless possibility and imaginings, but my resolve to utilise it was ebbing away with every day I spent with my thoughts. I remember wasting the days by merely staring out to sea, thinking that I was utterly sick of wanting things only to find that they either didn't exist or I lost them by my own mistakes.

Reginald's death did not heal me as I had banked it would. Rather, my burning rage fired on and gouged an even bigger hole in my heart, allowing more problems to rush in. And boy, did I have them. They all stung and singed at that exposed fissure and threatened to end me completely.

The bitter pain of knowing who killed my father and Holden's death was only soothed by the memories of Ziio. I thought of her a lot. Too much. She took up every waking moment I had, my guilt at how I treated her fuelling my desire to be with her and fix it all. Against my better nature, I indulged in fantasies that were rich and detailed. They were of a life we could have had if I hadn't lied and instead fought to stay with her. At the time, children didn't factor into my life inside my head. I wanted her to myself in that splendour of the forest. Where the real world of politics and war were mere fantasies we used to amuse each other.

Of course, for every hour I spent daydreaming, the following hour in reality, which was on a rough, shoddy trade ship, became even bitterer. I was downhearted and still quite ill, never really recovering from that angry stab of Lucio's. What on earth could the colonies offer me now? What could my title offer me?

Weeks later, my feet touched colony soil once more. My first initiative was to get straight back on the boat that took me there and not give a darn where it went next.

But I was broken out of it by someone shouting my name warmly... and then I was being half dragged across the dockyard and towards the Green Dragon, a familiar voice reaching my ears and pulling me out of my depressed fog.

"You never told me when you were coming back!"

It was Charles Lee, greeting me with a delighted voice with a touch of annoyance underneath.

I couldn't believe it. I hadn't told him when I was coming back, because I thought there wouldn't be someone like him waiting for me.

Charles' incredible enthusiasm... and his downright joy at just seeing me after such a long time... touched me. There was someone on this earth whose life I hadn't yet destroyed or ruined in some way. Someone who was actually better off after my being in my presence and was happy about it. After Braddock's demise, he was moving up in the colonies, making contacts, feeling confident- all the while having his new Templar brethren supporting him. Selfish as it was, I took great pride in being a key part of that.

For a few years afterwards, I lived simply. I was no longer bothered about precursor artefacts and I never wanted to enter the frontier again. I left it to Charles to take care of that in my stead and I thought he was doing an admirable job (of course, I'd learn in detail how he went about the task exactly later on in life- where it would be too late to fix his mistakes). However, I was determined to leave the dream life I lived inside my head. I had plans for the cities, plans for the future; I couldn't change the world if I was never in it.

Charles was quick to tell me on my return that the Assassin kingdom was now quite aware of us. Our quarrel with Braddock was none of their concern, but the fact that my men were wandering the terrain put their nose out of joint. Rumour had it that the head of the colonial Assassins was none too happy at how I had once allied myself with some of the Iroquois and wanted to know how I did it. They would sabotage our supplies or kill off a few of our newest recruits. We would plunder their forts and kill off a few of their own brothers in return. Tit for tat as they say, and I was rather content with it all. My plans were taking shape and starting a major quarrel with a disillusioned brotherhood would only get in my way. Upon recollection, I guess I was reluctant to strike properly because also I loathed dealing with anything that related to my father, especially when it felt like I had lost him all over again after revenging his death.

However, Charles, Hickey, Jonson, Pitcairn- they weren't content. They didn't think subtly and more significantly they weren't as conflicted as I. They were whole men with pure minds when it came to loyalty, and they were Templars. To strike the Assassins was part of their calling, their nature, and with the lack of preparations on my part, they in good faith set to making their own.

They shocked me to the core with this new plan of theirs that would wipe out every Assassin in the frontier and cities. To myself, I wondered with some measure of worry at where the brutality and daring came from- was it within their natures, or had they drawn inspiration from me?

It didn't really matter though. I couldn't say no to what they proposed- what would have been my reasoning? We were still riding high from our victory over Braddock and this was just another strong opportunity that we knew we could succeed in taking. My own logic took away my reservations. After all, wasn't I looking for a purpose? I believed in wanting the colonies to be free and I knew I could execute that wish better than the Assassins. I could prove to myself that I was the stronger man against those who threatened to pull me down.

Our actions were swift and merciless. True to my private convictions, I never went out into the frontier to lead the assault at Homestead. I sat and waited in New York, relishing in the reports, feeling the long-forgotten buzz that work and order gave me.

My part to play came when Achilles, half mad with rage and probably grief, sought to kill me for what I had done. Our fight was undoubtedly bitter and rough. Smatterings of remorse brushed at me and I couldn't help but wonder if I was some form of monster. But I consoled myself that this was what it was to be on a side- to be either A or B. If we did not strike first, the Assassins would later, and it would be me walking alone with three types of leg instead of two. Difficult decisions were always made by those with power, and I was experiencing for the first time what that truly meant.

Things were clearer then. Now I wonder if I could ever justify my actions. Especially if my own son wanted to ask, wanted to know why I allowed the killing to go on in such a way. Would he understand how useless I felt? How I believed that at the time I _could_ rationalise my actions and that there was no one to rationalise them to?

I left Homestead very quickly after my long self examination of my history with Achilles Davenport on the hill. I did toy with the idea of breaking in to the Davenport home. A year ago, I would have done it without question, but ridiculously, I felt uncomfortable doing it then. The silly idea of Achilles watching me from the grave unnerved me more than anything.

And despite what I thought about it, Connor had spared my life. It would have been a poor sense of gratitude to break in to his sanctuary. It didn't help that I was beginning to feel like that if I stayed there, I would somehow taint the perfection of the place, like I managed to taint everything else I came into contact with.

Since then, I've gone to Boston, the city I know best. I'm learning more and more how to hide in all the right places. I am at the advantage that I know the Templar tricks and particularly, I know Charles' mindset best of all. The risk of being discovered is low and so I keep my ear to the ground where I can. Yet I have heard nothing of importance, nothing that stands as being unusual. It is like I have truly died, and the world is merely going on above my head as I sit and bury myself in worry.

All I know now is to wait.

And I also think far too much.

* * *

A/N: (THAT CHAPTER IS OVER THANK FUCK)

Poor Corrine, having to deal Haytham Kenway on her doorstep at strange hours of the night. Such are the trials of an innkeeper :P As you may figure, I've never imagined Haytham to be at one with nature. However, the image of him frolicking around Homestead and charming women was far too tempting to ignore... oh and it was a good place to sit in on all of the ANGST.


End file.
